Sixty Six
by The Lost and Found Box
Summary: "Dean takes one look in the mirror and decides that today's going to be one of those days." Today is Dean Winchester's birthday and he gets a very special visitor. Destiel.


Dean takes one look in the mirror and decides that today's going to be one of those days.

He grabs a beer on his way out, along with his jacket and his hat. Both articles of clothing are big, hulking monstrosities. Dean hates the way that he looks in them, but they're useful. It's been a cold winter – all winters here are cold – and Dean's not as impervious to the cold as he used to be. That's what happens when you get old, he supposes, but that doesn't mean he's happy about it.

Sometimes, on cold winter nights with frost-covered windows and wind that blows through the very bones of his house, he considers moving back to Kansas. It's warmer there. He thinks about it as he drifts to sleep. It's lighter than anything else he can think of and his dreams are usually good on those nights. He could go home, set up shop in Lawrence, and be closer to where he started out. It's a good idea at midnight, but in the morning Dean shakes his head. It'd hurt too much to go back there. He'll stay in Wisconsin. It holds no meaning for him here. Plus, the people are nice and the cheese is good.

He cracks open his beer and takes a sip. Sophie barks at his heels. The Labrador/poodle mix doesn't like it when her master drinks. Dean doesn't like it when she shits in the house, so he thinks they're even. "Shut up," he tells her with a touch of humor and jest in his voice. She barks once and he swears that she rolls his eyes at him before she runs ahead of him, nails slipping, clicking and sliding on iced-over pavement.

He unlocks the door to the Shop and she runs in. It's warmer in here, but even if it wasn't Dean thinks that he'd still feel warmer. He loves the Shop. It's his pride and joy. It was an old, haunted building when he found it, but now it's a mix of things – a garage, a convenience store, a hunter hotspot, a bar, you name it. The Midwest's answer to the ill-fated Roadhouse, on a smaller scale.

Sophie curls up in her dog bed and Dean starts the day. A moment later, the OPEN sign flickers on in the front of the building. It's thirty minutes after they were supposed to be open, but Dean doesn't think that anyone will notice. He'll be surprised if anyone even pops in. Hunters that aren't used to the area stay away if they can during the winter and the locals will be too smart to leave their houses today.

Or too stupid, Dean thinks with a shrug. He takes another sip of his beer. If anything, he can probably expect a visit from some daring hicks, or maybe some local kids if the schools are called.

It's this that prompts him to look at his calendar. _Is it even a school day? _First, he takes a moment to appreciate Miss January, winking at him seductively. Then he gets to business. Today is… the 24th of January. And that means that…

Well, hell. Today's Dean's birthday. He scratches his chin. "Huh," he says.

Sixty-six. Today he is sixty-six years old.

If you told him that he'd make it to sixty-six when he was thirty four, he would have laughed you out of town. Or out of the country. Or, with the way things were going, off of the planet. Hell, anybody would have laughed you off if the planet. He was on the fast track to dying, one leg dangling over the End of the World As We Know It and the other dangling over suicide. He's still not sure how he did it.

_I didn't do it, _he'll remind 's living on borrowed time. The grave marked "JOHN WINCHESTER" and the hand-print on his shoulder prove that. Dean places a hand there now.

But there's no use thinking about that right now. It's his birthday, isn't it? He should be celebrating. "Well, Sophie, let's celebrate," he says before taking a drink of his beer. Sophie barks once and wags her tail. "That's the spirit." He turns on the TV in the corner. After a moment (_longer than yesterday, should probably take a look at that_), a reporter in fine dress appears and informs Dean that the mystery illness that took the lives of five children and made many more ill in South Dakota has officially been taken control of by the CDC and the last of the children has been released from the hospital to relieved parents blah blah blah.

"An official report is due later tonight…" the reporter says and Dean snorts. Mystery illness, yeah, it was a striga and he knew the hunters on the job. It was good to hear that Jim and Miley had it under control, and fast too – he had pretended to be a top CDC official for them over the phone just three days ago.

"Still, not exactly my idea of celebrating," he tells Sophie, who responds with an enthusiastic tail wag. Dean changes the channel until he finds a "Doctor Sexy, MD" marathon. With a beer in hand, his dog by his feet and the building warming, he leans back and glues his eyes to the TV.

It's one of his favorite episodes. The patient has tits like you wouldn't believe and she's been the catalyst for more than one of Dean's fantasies in the past, but he has trouble paying attention. The striga has him thinking about Sam.

There was time when he thought that he couldn't live without his brother, but that time has passed and Dean's been living sans Sam for roughly twenty years now. He's been doing just fine, too – well, as fine as he could be - what with the Shop and Sophie – although it was Marlowe before Sophie, but Marlowe's been dead for three years now.

If Dean's being honest with himself (and he's not), he adopted Marlowe because of Sam. He was lonely, riding solo, even if he wasn't really hunting full time anymore. He had already bought the Shop and was cleaning it up, now that the ghost of an angry spirit was taken care of, when he found the poor creature literally frozen to the train tracks on one of those cold winter nights.

He called animal control and stayed with the shaking, freezing, abused thing all night. With the help of some well-meaning neighbors (the people here sure were nice) and some (stolen) money, Marlowe got his treatment. Dean was ready and willing to leave the dog and let him be adopted by a nice family with 2.5 kids, until he learned that the shelter would put him down if no one adopted him in three days.

"Don't worry," the young woman behind the counter told him. "He'll be adopted no problem, I know it. He's a beagle, probably pure-breed, plus he's got all of that publicity. Someone will pick him up in no time, sir."

Dean wasn't sure how he felt about that.

He wasn't sure how he felt about it after the first day, when he learned that no one had picked up the pup. He was feeling slightly surer when the second day came and the story remained the same. On the third day, he walked into the shelter with an air of confidence and adopted the creature himself.

This confidence faded when he walked out of the shelter with a shaking beagle in his arms. He had never had a dog before, never really wanted one. Maybe once when he was kid, but when he came old enough to understand the reality that he lived in, he pushed any thoughts of dog-ownership aside. Now that he had one, he didn't really know what to do with it. What did dogs even do?

Dean put the dog in the back of the Impala. "If you piss in my car, I swear to god," he warned. The beagle whined in response.

"What?" Dean asked, maybe a little too loudly. The beagle stood up in the backseat and pawed at Dean's jacket.

A moment later and the dog was sitting, front-seat, next to Dean in the Impala. Dean sat next to him, with his hands on the wheel and his eyes on the beagle. "I can't believe this," he said, mostly to himself. Marlowe leaned over to sniff Dean's jacket and arm. It occurred to Dean that the dog was completely unrestrained. _What if he, I don't know, jumps out of the car or something?_

"You aren't going to jump out of the car, right?" The dog whined and Dean determined that the response wasn't good enough for him. Feeling every ounce ridiculous, Dean leaned over and buckled his dog in.

The dog was called "Dog" for three days until Dean decided that "Dog" was sort of a shitty name for a dog. Good name for a cat, though. And it wasn't really Dean who decided it, either – it was Sam. Well, what Dean thought Sam would say about it, at least.

"You can't name a dog 'Dog'!" Dean could almost hear his brother say. Then Dean would counter with 'why not?' and they'd bicker back and forth until the dog had another name (but Dean would still call him 'Dog' in from of Sam, just to piss him off, and his actual name when no one else was listening).

The only problem was that in this scenario Sam would come up with a name and Sam wasn't here to do that. Dean's creativity with names stretched from 'Dog' to, well, 'Buster' and his dog didn't really look like a 'Buster' to him.

Dean didn't have to mull over it for very long, though. The name came to him when he woke up from a nap one afternoon with Dog curled up on the couch next to him and an old detective film from the 60s or 70s, or hell Dean didn't know and didn't really care, was on. The detective's name was Marlowe and he was helping out this babe with a stupid name that was from Kansas. It was meant to be. Dean christened his dog 'Marlowe' right there on the couch.

Looking back, Dean is just glad that he didn't have to go with the other alternative. The name 'Sam' seemed just a little bit inappropriate considering it felt like just yesterday Dean was washing his brother's blood off of his hands.

Big Tits and Doctor Sexy come back on TV and Dean starts to be able to lose himself in the program (and Big Tits' tits) when Sophie starts barking like a beast.

"Shut up, Sophie," he says at first, but then she stands up and begins to growl. Her entire body is shaking and shivering, and she bares her teeth.

Well.

That's never a good sign.

By the time the door opens and the frigid winds carve out a man or man-like shape in the entrance of the building, Dean's already got his hand hovering over the gun underneath the counter.

_Hicks or kids_, he thinks. And it's a kid. A skinny slip of a kid, no more than twenty-five, and wearing a jacket that's much too thin for the weather. At first, Dean's sure that he's an out-of-towner, but when he sees that the kid's not shivering at all, despite the cold, his fingers twitch over the gun like a wildcat ready to pounce.

"Can I help you?" Dean asks. He keeps his tone open and friendly, but there's a challenge underneath it all.

Sophie launches into a whole new round of barks and growls. The kid gives her one glance and her mouth snaps shut. She doesn't even whine, just walks with defeat back behind her master.

Now Dean's touching the gun. Every instinct tells him to pull it out and see what happens, but Dean opts for saying "Can I help you?" a little bit louder.

The kid takes a step further. He's looking around with a curious look that's all too familiar and he walks like his skin is ill-fitting and wrong. Possessedis Dean's verdict. _Probably a demon,_ he tries to tell himself, but he doesn't think that's quite right. Ever since, well, _that _night twenty years ago, demons are a commodity, a souvenir of the past. Old hat. An artifact.

Dean hasn't heard of a demon possession in thirteen years.

The kid takes another step forward. For the first time, he looks Dean in the eye and Dean almost has a heart attack. His eyes are blue, bright and ancient, and Dean immediately knows what it is.

Well, that's just fucking great.

"Hello Dean," the kid-who-isn't-a-kid says and now Dean's aware that it knows him by his first name and that's _never_ a good sign.

Dean's also aware that he knows it by its first name, too.

"I'm surprised that you don't recognize me," the kid says, but he looks more hurt than surprised.

_Of course I recognize you,_ Dean thinks. Resentment begins to fester like acid in the back of his throat.

"Whose body are you wearing this time, Cas?" Dean asks and he hopes that the angel will hear the hostility in his words.

Cas glances at the ground long enough for Dean to know that he got the hint. Dean takes a little personal pride in the fact that without his guiding hand, Cas would have been completely lost at understanding the subtlety of human language. "His name is James Witt," Cas finally answers. "He is my old vessel's grandson."

It takes Dean a second, but he can see the resemblance. James is thin, but he looks quick. His jaw has the same strength, his hair is the same deep brown, and his eyes have the same colour and depth, although Dean's thinking that the depth probably has to do with the angel inside of the body and not the body itself.

"I hope you're planning on giving that boy his body back," Dean says, looking down. He pulls the gun out under the table and sets it on the counter in front of him. It's not like it would do anything, but he needs something to do with his hands – some kind of distraction.

"I am an angel of the Lord, Dean. He allowed me access," Cas explains, but it's not like Dean doesn't already know. Cas stares at the gun and then adds, in a voice that would almost suggest guilt, "He will regain control soon. I will not be here for long."

Dean takes a deep breath. "Well, that's good. He'll get to see his family again, go get married, have a wife and 2.5 kids." Dean looks up, right into Castiel's eyes. Dean is bristling, alive with bitter energy and a hint of resentment.

"I am under the impression that James Witt is a homosexual-" Cas begins to correct him, but Dean cuts him off.

"I don't care if your vessel likes chicks, or dudes, or fucking poodles, Cas!" Dean bursts, throwing one hand up into the air. He growls and trembles. He is too old for this. Sophie whines behind him and he lowers his arm and his eyes to his gun. Castiel does not flinch.

"Why are you here?" Dean asks in a quieter tone. He looks up to meet Castiel's eyes again, but this time the angel does not meet Dean's gaze.

"I had business," Cas says. "I decided that I should pay you a visit when the business was finished." Cas looks up. "The business is finished."

"So you're paying your visit," Dean finishes. The venom and the bile rise from the back of his throat and forms in words. "Well, that's all fine and dandy, come give your old friend Dean a visit. After twenty years, why not? I'm sure he'd like that, say 'hi Cas! Haven't seen ya around in a while! What's up, buddy?'" Dean spits out before slamming his hand on the table. Behind him, Sophie jumps and whines again. Cas takes in a deep breath of air that he doesn't need and averts his eyes to the pool table beside him.

"I thought you were dead!" Dean yells. "Twenty years, Cas, I thought you were dead! Not so much as a hello. Did you even listen to my prayers, Cas? Did you hear me at all? All you had to do was pop down with your angel mojo, shoot me a smile and then pop back up!" He is breathing heavy and his heat is racing. Every inch of his body is on edge and his hands shake.

"I was otherwise occupied," Castiel growls. His eyes flash towards Dean, then down again at the floor and then back toward the pool table.

"With what?" Dean screams. "The War in Heaven was over! The War in Hell was over! Hell, the War here was over! Sam – " Dean catches himself. "It was all just picking up the pieces, Cas. And I had to pick them all up myself." He takes a deep breath. There is a tightness in his throat that he has not felt since the day the vet came for Marlowe. His whole body trembles.

Cas speaks. "Dean, that night –" he begins.

"I don't care about that night!" Dean yells, one last time. "I care about every night that came after it for twenty years. I didn't have Sam. I didn't have Bobby. I didn't have Charlie or Sheriff Mills, and hell; I didn't even have Garth anymore! All I had was you." Dean pauses. "I only had you," he adds with a calmer tone. "And you weren't there."

Castiel does not speak.

"So, I thought – I had to think – that maybe you were dead. I couldn't imagine why you returning my calls, Cas, unless you were dead. Not after what we had been through. The Apocalypse? Leviathan? Purgatory, Cas? And then years passed, and I knew that you must be dead."

"Me and Marlowe had a little ceremony for you, Cas," Dean admits and he wipes what may or may not be a tear from his eyes. "We buried you." And then, "Figuratively, of course."

There is a very pregnant pause, and then Cas speaks. "I know."

"You know?" Dean's voice breaks.

"I was watching you. I was always watching you," he continues. His eyes move away from the pool table and back toward the floor.

Dean's angry enough to tear down the world and then tear it down again, but he doesn't. He folds his hands over his gun. It's funny, almost, in a way, he thinks, but an old wound is raw again and thinking makes it hurt. "Well then," he says, "Why didn't you say anything?"

Dean fully expects another pregnant pause, like before, but he doesn't get it. Castiel replies too fast for him. "Because I didn't think you'd want to have anything to do with me!" he growls. It's loud. It catches Dean off guard. Cas is staring at him, full of angelic fury and that familiar look on his face that he gets when he's trying to grapple with emotions.

"That's bullshit, Cas, and you know it," Dean replies, but he isn't sure that it is completely bullshit at all.

"What Sam did –" Cas starts.

"Sam did what he did," Dean shoots back.

"But I –"

"Sam saved the world, Cas." Dean pauses to take a calming breath that he sorely needs_. _"I don't blame you – and I don't blame him – for what happened."

Dean steels himself for whatever Cas has to sling his way, but it's unnecessary. Cas replies with a trembling, vulnerable sigh that's, still, after all of these years, so un-Cas it makes Dean's skin crawl.

"I'm sorry," Cas whispers. His voice is as weak as his sigh. Sophie whines.

Dean swallows hard. "I'm not going to say that it's alright, Cas, because it's not, but after all of these years, if there's something that I learned it's…" but Dean doesn't get a chance to continue. Castiel moves toward him quick, so quick that Dean's half sure the damn angel mojo'd his way over.

Cas reaches out a hand – thin and young – to touch Dean's cheek. Dean flinches away from his touch at first, but resigns himself to it when Cas emits a low growl signaling a marked displeasure at Dean's actions. Dean thinks that Cas' hand is too warm and too foreign. Cas can feel the familiar bone and sinew, worn with age, and he thinks that maybe Dean should shave a little more often.

Before he knows it, Dean his pressing his cheek into Cas' hand and Cas is moving in for the kill.

It's a kiss and it isn't a kiss. Their lips press into each other's with want and need and a familiar train of thought that has been buried under piles of apocalyptic (literally) shit and years of mistakes for much too long, but they are more than their lips and bodies. They are not Dean Winchester and Castiel – they are the Righteous Man and his Angel, together, finally. They are a human soul and something that is so bright and beautiful that it is beyond human comprehension.

The kiss breaks and Dean is able to finish what he started saying earlier. It comes out hushed and fast under his breath. "… forgiveness," he says, and he means it.

"I have missed you, Dean," Cas murmurs. His hand is still on Dean's cheek, absentmindedly following the contours of human's skull. "We have all missed you."

"All?" Dean asks. His breath is ragged and shaky. He places a hand of Castiel's.

"Everyone," Cas clarifies. "Heaven is again the paradise that my Father meant it to be."

Dean tries to swallow, but his throat feels like it is closing up on him. Sophie nuzzles into his leg.

"Even…?" Dean asks.

"Yes," Cas replies. "And we are all waiting for you."

Then he is gone.

* * *

i just had to.  
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